Lake Lessons

I'm sitting here at the place that inspired the name of this blog, the outer manifestation of my inner deck. I've had three days to disconnect from the day-to-day: to listen to the wind in the aspens, smell the pines, feel the rocks and roots as I hiked, watch the magnificent lake heave and sigh.

The irony is that the permanence of all this -- forest, rocks, lake -- makes me more committed to change in my own life. The steadfastness of this place makes clear how inconsequential most of my daily struggles and decisions really are. This little cottage on the big lake, surrounded by beauty, filled with hand-made art (prints and wood cuts, hand-thrown mugs and plates, custom metalwork on the countertops, a hand-painted table by the window), reminds me that the work I'm doing right now -- nose-to-the-grindstone in a corporate setting -- doesn't feel authentic to me. It feels unnatural and forced, rigid and impersonal.

I'm tired of feeling that the "work me" and the "real me" are two separate entities vying for my time and energy. But what to do with these feelings? I don't have the answers yet, but I need to be realistic. Any changes I make will have to be gradual; I have to think in baby steps. But I need to commit to some small steps and then take them. I need to stop complaining and wringing my hands and actually take some action. The obvious baby step is to commit more of my free time to writing, whether it's these essays, poems, a novel, even recipes. I need to find ways to fuel and exercise my creativity, and I need to put off soul-killing chores and obligations.

And I need to remember that I don't need a perfectly clear vision of where this leads. All I need to see is the next baby step. And when I have trouble focusing or prioritizing where I should spend my time and energy, I can remember the steadfastness of this place, the serenity, the silence -- and be reminded of what is lasting and authentic, as opposed to what is merely noise.

So, as I sit out here on the deck one more time before we leave, it hits me. I'm sad -- crying, in fact -- but it's not because I can't come back here. I can. I did. So why do I feel sad and empty?

The lake, the whole north shore, reminds me that I can be bigger, better than the life I'm going back to. Every year I come back and haven't really changed, haven't taken the steps I need to live life more slowly, more peacefully. Each year I come back and this place reminds me, yet again, that I'm not doing it right. But it keeps taking me back, ever patient, quiet and tranquil, showing me through its steadiness how I can be more like it, the lake itself. Take the long view; don't sweat every little detail. And still I don't learn. I get sucked back in and forget the bigger me this place calls me to. No wonder I'm so deeply sad every time I have to leave.

All the more reason to take those small steps toward authenticity, with the lake and the rocks as my constant reminder. I leave a little lighter this time, with a clearer vision of the task at hand: to take the lake and its lessons home with me.

Life Cycles

I finally connected with a long-time friend this morning, after several weeks of phone tag and e-mails. I had so much to tell her: things shifting at the job we used to share, milestones with my daughters, updates on plans and, hey, when can we get together for lunch or dinner to really get caught up?

She suprised me by answering her phone on the first ring -- I'd expected voice mail. Before I could even say, "Hey, it's me!" she asked me to hang on, I heard her close her office door, and she said: "I'm dead tired. Are you sitting down?"

Turns out, at the age of 41, after nearly 10 years of trying, giving up, trying again, considering adoption, trying once more and finally resigning themselves to being childless -- she's pregnant. I wanted to ask her two questions that blurred into one: "Are you OK?" by which I meant both "Are you feeling all right?" and "Are you happy about this?" She understood and answered both questions at once: "Yes!"

She described the initial disbelief and then the sheer terror that both she and her husband felt those first few days. I remembered feeling literally weak in the knees the first time I knew I was pregnant (after years of believing that was just a trite expression), and she said she'd felt the same sensation. She said they laughed and cried and prayed and wondered how on earth this could happen after all this time, and shook their heads over how this altered all their "plans" and laughed and cried and prayed some more until all they could do was hold each other in awe and fear and joy.

She and her husband are excited and scared and proud and amazed and realize they've been made party to nothing short of a miracle. But for her, it's tinged with a bit of sadness. Her father will probably not live to see his grandchild.

She hasn't told him yet -- her family will get the baby news over Independence Day weekend -- and she's not sure how he'll take it. She hopes he'll be happy but realizes it could be an emotional blow to his already fragile health to realize what he'll be missing. But she also sees that it could be a beautiful way for him to make peace with his mortality: a legacy in the making, in his daughter's womb. That is my sincere hope. I hope he makes this easy on her when she breaks the news, I hope he celebrates fully and leaves her with no regrets that it didn't or couldn't happen earlier. I hope he is able to be joyful that even as one life ends, another begins. That's the nature of things, for all time. They are all -- father, daughter, and grandchild-to-be -- part of that huge, beautiful, never-ending cycle.

As for me, I've gone around shaking my head and grinning all day at the wonderment of it, trying to picture her at full term, and then with an infant in her arms, or nursing, or toting a baby in and out of a car seat to go to the grocery store for diapers and baby food. I've thought about how their beautiful dog will react (and I have no doubt he will be perfect -- so gentle and protective!), and laughed at how much I know her husband will worry about daycare and school and then little league sports and friends, and what the first job is and college... and I think about how I worried about all those same things. And how I learned that in the end, all that matters is how much you love them and are there -- physically there, looking in their eyes, feeding them, helping with homework, cheering even when they're losing the little league game or don't get accepted to the "perfect" college -- just there for them. They can go to the best schools, eat the best food, read the best books, ride in the best cars and wear the best clothes, but unless the parents are there -- really present in every moment -- it doesn't matter. And it all passes by so incredibly quickly.

I wish I'd known that starting out. There's so much to worry about when a baby is on the way that it feels overwhelming. Learning to pick and choose your worries at this stage is good practice for the next two decades. But since every child and every parenting experience is different, all I can do is listen and offer advice when asked and let these two new parents make their own mistakes -- and their own beautiful discoveries. And if the new child happens to be a boy, a name is waiting, ready-made.